


Paintings and Pilferage

by china_shop



Series: Trading Places [6]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Episode Related, F/M, Fic, M/M, Pre-Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:23:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We gave you the anklet for a reason."</p><p>"Alibis," said El. "Nice."</p><p>"So I can keep an eye on you," Clinton corrected her. He changed lanes and turned left, heading for the Upper East Side. "I check your tracker every day."</p><p>El tightened her hands but kept her tone cheerful. "It's a good thing you're gay, or that kind of obsessive controlling behavior would be really creepy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paintings and Pilferage

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 1.05. Many thanks to mergatrude for beta.

"Ooh, Haustenberg!" El clasped her hands in her lap to keep from rubbing them together. "I love Haustenberg. His use of color, his brushwork. You know, not many of his pieces made it out of Hungary after the war, so they're--" She broke off. Clinton was eyeing her suspiciously from the driver's seat. "What?" she said, widening her eyes. "I didn't take it."

"I know," said Clinton. "But if we find it, you'll be tempted."

"I can handle temptation," said El. Which made her think of all kinds of temptation, which in turn made her think of Peter Burke. He was a surprising source of enticement -- those unexpected flashes of humor, maybe, or his perceptive gaze -- and she knew first-hand what he could do with that mouth. But she wasn't going to go there, to risk his career and jeopardize her own allegiances with her friends on the shady side of the law. If she literally got in bed with a Fed, Mozzie would never speak to her again, and without Mozzie, she couldn't find Alex. And they had to work together. So, no. For once she was going to act like an adult, show some restraint. She nodded firmly to herself, then realized Clinton was still watching her, now with open concern. "Hey, what do you mean, you know I didn't take it?"

"We gave you the anklet for a reason."

"Alibis," said El. "Nice."

"So I can keep an eye on you," Clinton corrected her. He changed lanes and turned left, heading for the Upper East Side. "I check your tracker every day."

El tightened her hands but kept her tone cheerful. "It's a good thing you're gay, or that kind of obsessive controlling behavior would be really creepy."

Clinton didn't rise to the bait. "It's my job."

"It's paranoid," said El. "I'm not going to do anything stupid, Clinton. I've got a good thing going here."

"And don't you forget it."

El refrained from poking her tongue out at him and changed the subject. "What painting was taken?"

"Young Girl with Locket." Clinton pulled up outside a narrow, white-painted house.

"Let me guess," said El, getting out of the car. "It's been missing for a month and the owner's only just noticed. I bet they're one of those super-wealthy soulless types who collects art for its investment potential and never actually looks at it."

"We're about to find out," said Clinton. He rang the doorbell.

Half an hour later they were back on the sidewalk. "Scratch the soulless owner theory," said El. "We're getting Julianna her damned painting back."

 

*

 

Peter ran in the back door of the gallery to find Jones and Elizabeth arguing while Taryn looked on. "You didn't have all the exits covered?" Elizabeth said. "Seriously?"

She sounded pissed like she always got when someone pulled a gun on her. Her blonde wig was practically giving off sparks.

"Of course we did," said Jones. "We'll have eyes on him--"

Peter interrupted. "We lost them," he said before Jones could commit himself, "and we found these in a dumpster." He handed Jones a wadded up bundle: Dorsett's crumpled suit.

"They switched clothes," said Jones. "Dammit! He planned this."

"He never had any intention of selling me the painting," said Elizabeth. "That asshole!"

Jones shot her a wry look. "I told you he was a bad guy." 

"Well, yeah, but I thought you just meant he was a criminal, not a dirty double-crossing skunk." Elizabeth scowled. "First he calls me a butterfly, and then he threatens to shoot me and steals my hundred grand. Was he raised in a barn?"

"It wasn't actually your money," Peter pointed out helpfully.

Elizabeth's chin came up. "I'm still in character," she said with dignity. "And now we've lost the creep! I can't believe you let him walk out of here. You have how many undercover agents outside? And they didn't even--"

Jones rolled his eyes and spoke into the walkie talkie. "Activate the tracker."

"What?" Elizabeth stopped mid-rant. "What tracker?"

"We hid a GPS tracker inside the briefcase with the cash," Peter explained.

"Oh." A vindictive smile lit her face. "Cool!"

The walkie talkie crackled to life. "Bad news, boss," said Cruz through the static. "It looks like Dorsett dumped the briefcase."

Jones swore and turned to Peter. "Arrest Elizabeth and Taryn. Handcuff them, read them their rights, everything. We need to maintain their cover." He turned away and started barking more orders into the walkie talkie.

"You got it." Peter shepherded the two women outside and pushed them gently against the waiting SUV while he Mirandized them.

Taryn winked at Elizabeth. "Things always this interesting when you're around?"

"Oh, you have no idea," muttered Peter as he closed cuffs around Elizabeth's slim wrists.

Elizabeth just laughed.

 

*

 

Clinton unwrapped his tuna fish sandwich and glanced across the dimly lit car at Elizabeth. "Would you stop fidgeting?"

The coin she'd been flipping across the back of her knuckles vanished and reappeared. "You know, I know someone who could rig up an automated system with traffic cams and facial recognition software in no time. Get us a computer powerful enough, and we could free up thousands of personnel hours. Just think of all those extra evenings you could spend at home with Neal."

"Neal's working tonight. Bar mitzvah." Clinton cast her a skeptical look before scanning the street for Dorsett or his bodyguard. "I wouldn't have expected you to champion universal surveillance."

"Oh sure." Elizabeth shrugged. "When it suits me." She slouched down in her seat and the coin danced across her hands, glinting in the shadows. 

Clinton echoed her sigh. "Okay, tell me. What is your problem?"

"This is so inefficient!" she burst out. "For all we know, we're in the wrong place, or he's in there bathing in champagne and celebrating his win." She looked longingly across the street to the hotel bar. "And I hate the smell of tuna."

"You want to take your new gold card out for a spin, don't you?"

The coin hesitated for a fraction of a second. "You know about that?" She raised an eyebrow. "Getting creepy again, Clinton."

"It's my job." Clinton refused to be shamed into giving her more latitude, no matter what she said.

She palmed the coin and made it reappear a couple of times, and Clinton stared at the street and thought about the possibility of Dorsett inside the hotel, safely out of sight, rolling around in hundred dollar bills courtesy of the United States government. Finally he couldn't stand it anymore. "Okay, fine. Go. Ten minutes. But behave yourself. And keep your phone on."

Elizabeth was halfway out of the car before he'd finished speaking. She leaned back in and flipped him the coin, still warm from her hands. "You are a sweetheart, I don't care what anyone says."

"What do they say?" asked Clinton, but she was already gone.

He placed the coin on the dash and turned on the radio, and then sat and ate his tuna fish while he listened to a baseball game and watched the street with an experienced eye, honed over years of stakeouts. God only knew what Elizabeth was doing, but how much trouble could she possibly get into in ten minutes in a public place? The answers his brain supplied to that question were less than comforting. He craned his head, but he couldn't see her in the bar. 

After eight minutes, he was fingering his phone, considering calling to remind her that her time was nearly up, when she reappeared, breathless and triumphant. "Clinton! Come on, I found Brigitte."

"Any sign of Dorsett?"

Elizabeth looked over her shoulder and gave a thumbs up to a stunning blonde standing outside the bar. "No, he's out," Elizabeth said, turning back to Clinton, "but Brigitte invited us up to her room for a threesome, so we might get lucky and find the painting. Come on!"

Clinton's jaw dropped. "She _what?!_ "

 

*

 

Neal and Clinton were halfway through The Colbert Report when the door buzzer went. Clinton grunted, sounding half-asleep, so Neal patted his leg. "I'll get it, babe."

The security camera showed Elizabeth, pale-faced with her hair pulled into a plain ponytail. Neal buzzed her in and opened the door to wait. "Using the buzzer? That's not up to your usual sneaky standards," said Neal, but she just grimaced.

"Is Clinton home?" She was wearing jeans and a red sweater, and her hands were dug deep in her pockets. She didn't bound in and make herself at home like she had before; this time she hung back as if she were reluctant to cross the threshold.

Clinton had switched off the TV and was standing by the dining table, his hands on his hips, exuding authority. He looked twice her size. "What are you doing here?"

"Dorsett called me." She had the air of a schoolgirl called to see the principal, and Neal couldn't for the life of him tell how much it was an act.

He caught Clinton's eye and said, "I'll put some coffee on." The way their apartment was set up, if he loitered in the kitchen, he could listen in without being too intrusive, and since Clinton didn't object, that qualified as permission as far as Neal was concerned.

Clinton and Elizabeth sat at the table. "Sorry to come by so late," said Elizabeth. "I know you probably don't--"

Clinton held up a hand to stop her. "Just tell me why you're here."

"You're going to be mad."

"Probably." He folded his arms on the table. From where Neal stood, his profile was impassive at best. "What did you do?"

Elizabeth licked her lips. "I took the painting."

"Dammit, El!"

"I know, okay? I wasn't going to--" She broke off at Clinton's glare. "I did it for--"

"Stop," interrupted Clinton. "Where is the painting? Is it safe?"

"Yes."

"But you didn't bring it. You don't have it here."

"I--" Elizabeth's mouth snapped shut. "Listen, Dorsett doesn't know I work for you. He wants the painting back. We can use it to catch him."

It was an obvious misdirect. She was hiding something, and not very well. Neal could see Clinton knew that too, but for whatever reason, he decided not to pursue it. "We'll set it up tomorrow. Now get out of here before I call the marshals and have you sent back to prison."

"Right." Elizabeth was out of her chair in a second. She cast Neal a slightly desperate glance, and he took pity on her.

"Goodnight, Elizabeth."

"Goodnight, Neal." She left.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Neal abandoned all pretence of making coffee. He went to stand behind Clinton and squeezed his shoulders. He could almost feel the frustration pulsing through the tight muscles.

"She stole it out from under my nose," said Clinton grimly. "During that farce in the hotel. A two and a half million dollar painting, the subject of a current open investigation, and she just took it."

"You know why she did it, though, right?" Neal pulled up a chair so they could talk face to face.

"Sure, I know. She wants to give it back to Julianna." Clinton frowned. "The second the Channing curator opened his mouth, I knew Elizabeth was going to screw this up. She doesn't care about the law or what's right."

"Well, you know, those aren't always the same thing," said Neal mildly.

"Et tu?"

Neal held up his hands. "You yourself said you wished Julianna could get her painting back. Maybe she can."

Clinton blinked at him incredulously. "You're as bad as she is."

Neal shrugged. "Hey, I'm just saying Elizabeth could make her a copy. I've heard she's a talented reproductionist."

"Right," said Clinton. "That's what you were suggesting." He shook his head tiredly. "I can't deal with this tonight. We'll take down Dorsett tomorrow and go from there."

"You're the boss," said Neal, because really, it was none of his business, even if he knew Clinton was as annoyed by the Channing Curator's sense of entitlement as he suspected Elizabeth was. "Look at it this way. Elizabeth came to you and confessed."

"Because Dorsett threatened Taryn," said Clinton.

"Well--" Neal patted his arm. "It's a start."

 

*

 

Mozzie poured himself a glass of wine and paced Elizabeth's apartment, feeling philosophical, after successfully helping El switch out the forged Haustenberg for the real one. It seemed apropos to list their achievements. "So, the painting's where it belongs, the Channing is pretending to be happy with its replacement, the FBI has recovered its moolah and you're not in prison." 

"Yup," said El absently. She was doing something on her laptop. Probably checking her email.

"Another thief thwarted," said Mozzie. He held his glass to the light, enjoying the red glow of a respectable Cabernet. "I don't know how I feel about that." 

El looked up. "Dorsett threatened to hurt Taryn." 

"Point. I'll take it as a win." Mozzie made a silent toast and drank.

"Oh hell," said El, her eyes back on the laptop screen.

"What is it?" He respected her too much to peer blatantly over her shoulder, but he did sneak a quick peek, which confirmed his suspicion. "Has Big Brother hacked your email?"

"Nope." El slammed the computer shut and pushed it away from her across the table. "Someone has cleared out my stash."

Mozzie froze, mid-sip, and slowly lowered his wineglass. The earth seemed to tilt on its axis. "Everything?"

"Everything." She looked up and met his gaze. "It has to be Alex, right? No one else would have the first clue where to look. I mean, it's San Diego. Now do you believe me when I say she's in trouble?"

Mozzie took a deep breath and nodded. "I'm not on Team Alex, but this doesn't seem like her. She's competitive, but she doesn't play dirty--"

"No. Unless she needs something I stole."

"Or something she thinks you stole," said Mozzie, well aware that El's reputation had exceeded her exploits upon more than one occasion.

El stood up and took the Bordeaux bottle from its place on the mantelpiece. It was a familiar item these days, much studied, but she turned it in her hands as if trying to see it anew. "We have to find that deposit box, Moz."

Mozzie cleared his throat. "You know, you're taking this awfully well."

"What?" 

"The loss of your entire stash, the accumulated treasure of a decade's cons, scams and heists. Billions of dollars' worth of loot." Mozzie gestured wildly, warming to his theme. "Why so serene?"

"You're the budding Buddhist," said El. "You tell me."

"Seriously?"

She sat back at the table, set the bottle in front of her and propped her chin on her hands. There was a gleam in her eye that reminded him of the old days, before Adler, before the Feds. "The thing is," she said, "most of the stuff in San Diego was forged. There were a couple of genuine pieces, some letters, but nothing significant."

"A decoy stash?" Mozzie halted in his tracks again, dumbstruck at the brilliance of it. After a long moment, he favored her with a deep, formal bow. "I have taught you well, grasshopper."

She grinned, taking that as no more than her due, but she sobered again as her gaze fell on the smooth lines of the bottle. "Just help me figure out the secret, okay?"

He sat down next to her and took the bottle from her grasp. "I'll take it to my lab and run some tests. We'll get to the bottom of this in no time,"

"Thanks, Moz." She smiled, but there was tension around her eyes, a kind of worn-in tiredness. "Really. Thank you."

Mozzie patted her arm clumsily. "What are partners for?"

 

END


End file.
